


Vascularise

by acetics



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Near Death Experiences, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acetics/pseuds/acetics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s what you’d expect, really, from two boys who hunt like wolves in a pack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually had no intention of ever posting this?? whatever it is,..?. but whoop here we are  
> (Tbh if u just want smut go to chapter 2)

It’s the fourth day when Jean wakes up, an old ache in his bones and raw grazes on his palms, knees. He pulls himself out of his sleeping bag and into the red dawn, into silence, the world an endless plane and a vacuum of life. Jean always gets up first.

He can smell the dried blood in his hair. 

And as ruler of the empty world, his first decree is to take a piss in peace. He wanders closer to the edge of the cliff because why the hell not and behind a misty tree line, it’s startlingly acrid and loud in the soft quiet.

Shock, a neural flare in all jerks and turns is what Jean feels as something moves in the corner of his vision. Zip is the sound of his pants. Fingers twitch to the blades that aren’t reassuringly weighted at his hips.  

Not even the birds, the most punctual of sparrows are awake yet to see Eren, back painted in flames, a tongue of orange light draped across his better side, cape shooting across the ground. To Jean, his straight spine and mean scowl at the greying forest is a red pinprick of life on a heat map. Quite a sight and Jean seems unable to tear his eyes away.   

This has been happening a lot of late. The truth is, Eren has become a certain sort of familiarity to him. The kind that’s in an old shirt, the sweatiness of his palms, maybe the pinching straps of his gear or the ridges on the back of his front teeth where his tongue rests against.

Jean can pick Eren’s scent out in a dark room, can tag the hoarse tones of his yell or the ghosted pitches of his gasps. It’s what you’d expect, really, from two boys who hunt like wolves in a pack.

But still, there’s this pull of Jeans tongue, like his mouth is a pressurised coke can, his lips stretched thin at having to hold back a flood of unspoken words. He doesn’t know what he’d say the same way he can’t pull together the galaxies of Eren’s eyes into constellations. They’re mapped out, he’s embarrassed to admit, burnt into the back of his eyelids. 

 

That day, Eren winds up ragdoll between the thumb and forefinger of a Titan. Gasping, yelling and squirming because his arms are pinned to his sides. Before he can even scream, Jean is there; a savage hiss and nose crinkled into a snarl. Metal flashing, drawing a thick line of red across the Titan’s spine, slamming the shuddering mass into the ground.

Below the name that reads Jean Kirstein and below the status that reads alive, there’s a top mark for bladesmanship. He didn’t get that for nothing.

And his hands; those scarred, bird skeleton hands would’ve ripped that Titan’s burning, thundering heart right out of its chest and cracked its bones apart one rib at a time. He bares his teeth at the hot spray of blood, runs a tongue and tastes salt and metal in his mouth.

When he gathers Eren’s body in his arms, sack of bones, liquefied like he might drop if Jean set him on his own two feet, Jean’s teeth seem to lose a sharpness and his clawed fingers go mother soft. With Eren huddled in his arms, Jean can’t feel his broad, filled-out soldiers or his solid stomach. In fact, Jean doesn’t even register surprise at being able to pick Eren up, let alone sprinting away with him to the nearest horse.

The sharp adrenaline ebbs from his head and stops prickling in the muscles of his arms as Jean slows to a trot. Now with steadying breaths, he can’t help but notice Eren’s soft hair tickling the underside of his throat and the way his fists curl into his shirt and hang on for dear life.

Only because Eren is mostly delirious and trying to stutter out sounds, Jean presses his dry lips butterfly light to the skin of his forehead in some attempt to quiet the harsh breaths and scared whimpers that are surgically taking apart his heart.

It’s to check for a temperature. This is what he tells himself.

He can smell fresh sweat and fire, all things Eren. But he can also smell terror on his very hot skin like a sickness. It sits in his stomach like battery acid.          

Eren does settle, blacks out probably. His forehead, much too aged, unwrinkles like someone trying to smooth out scrunched up paper and his body goes soft. Jean is reminded of a drowsy cat, the way even bones bend and just presses Eren closer to the hollow he made in his chest and vows to never mention this to anyone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> handjobs next probably
> 
> ps there is a distinct chance that i will never finish this


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> returning to a writing style you used 4 months ago more like ?????????

Jean Kirstein is many things. He is tall, light haired in some places, delicate in others. Good at killing things. Upper class; ok at sewing, bad with people. He’s homesick, and has bitten down nails but a sharp mind. Most of all, Jean Kirstein is downright shocked, stomach pumping with adrenaline, head spinning and all at the lips pressed hard against his.

Jean thinks he can feel teeth, not his. 

When he pulls away in total shock, Eren’s cheeks are a ruddy, raw earth. His pupils are blown full wide, black ink blotted into an ocean. They’re the darkest, heaviest thing Jean has ever seen and his stomach lurches and tugs away from his body like Eren's eyes are a black hole, drawing him in, waiting to consume him whole.

Eren lets out an impatient huff as Jean gets the idea and cups one hand around the back of Eren’s neck and the other timidly, anxiously at a sharp hipbone. And kisses back, as if he’s scared Eren will shift away from his touch, soft as possible.

Jean asks him what he is doing between kisses, quietly, half-hoping Eren won’t hear and won’t answer. Because despite his reluctance to acknowledge the stretch of his heart whenever the light catches Eren just right, he can’t ignore the fact that it’s currently slamming into his ribcage, making a right mess of his insides. The tongue sliding slickly against his own is a bit alarming too. 

Eren gives a sinuous roll of hips in response and Jean gasps in his name with a lungful of hot, musty forest air. 

A suffocating heat prickles his spine and Jean suddenly wants this boy under his hands in every way possible. Wants to undress him, take him apart and put him back together again just to understand the mechanics of his joints and the tenacity of his mind. 

Lips, all bitten and hot, mouth wetly at the thin skin of Jean’s throat. A sharp nip makes his spine jerk. Eren’s fingers are quick and tugging at his belt and Jean can feel their tremble like a voltage through his body; his touch a jarring thrum that short-circuits his brain.

Mouth dropped open, breath heavy, eyes bugged and lips a wet red is how Jean stares down at Eren and asks him clumsily, if he’s really going to, you know.

Eren tells him to shut up, yes, and what does it look like, but sounds too on edge to be cruel.

By the time Eren has both of their cocks out, Jean is slack against a tree with cool sweat behind his knees and his hands, never knowing what they’re doing when it comes to other bodies, fisted white-knuckled into Eren’s shirt. 

A large hand, heavy fingers press pin points into Jean’s chest and Jean against the tree as Eren looks up at him. For a couple of seconds, Jean admires how lust-blown his pupils are, how startlingly human his hair sticking against his brow in the sweaty summer is. How pretty Eren Jaeger is. Then his mouth goes itchy dry and his mind very distracted when Eren purposefully licks wetly along his palm. The effect is lost a bit when he ends up spitting.

Someone says oh my god, that’s disgusting. It may be Jean. 

But Eren’s much too concerned with slicking up their cocks together with cool saliva and past that point, Jean doesn’t care about anything anymore. 

Long fingers wrapped around their cocks, Eren gives a singular, stuttering tug up and down. A twist of his wrist. And Jean thinks he is going to die. He expresses this to Eren, between gasps and bitten lips, because Eren is setting a rhythm and Jean feels a bit short of breath. 

Eren doesn’t seem to have the capacity to be catty anymore, and just messily crushes his mouth against Jean’s in response, nicks his bottom lip – sucks hard. Jean’s whole body is flushed hot with the same blush high on Eren’s cheeks. All he can think to do is roll his body into the rhythm of Eren’s.

The friction of Eren’s cock a little bit rough, but mostly sticky against his is just too much for Jean’s flaring up neurons. Every miniscule brush of Eren’s skin against his is enough to be torturous. And when he speeds up, Jean’s hands find themselves clawed at his back, raking long, slow lines up towards his shoulders, at his sides. 

Later, their squad mates will eye off the messy scratches streaked a raw red across Eren’s back with open mouths. Jean gives a sloppy mark, his first ever, to the delicate skin of Eren’s throat. Eren tilts into it, gives a pitched moan. 

A heavy pull is building in his lower abdomen, pangs of something that makes his hips go from rolling to thrusting sloppily against Eren’s. He bites his tongue – not hard enough to stop himself from whining into Eren’s hair, trying to ground himself with that familiar, distinct Eren scent. 

Eren seems to notice this and runs his fingers a bit faster, brushes his thumb over the head of Jean’s cock. He whimpers at that. Finally, Eren uses one arm to pull Jean’s hips tight against his and the other to press the calloused pad of a thumb down on the slit of Jean’s cock. A pocket of crushed air squeaks out of him. 

It hurts, and that about does it. Jean is coming spectacularly across Eren’s abdomen, hands, his own body.

Eren’s shirt is dry in his mouth when Jean sinks his teeth into a hard shoulder. And then he thinks – no, he’s pretty sure – that Eren comes too, with a high-pitched whine into Jean’s neck and a hot splatter against his lower stomach. 

His brain does something it only does when it honestly gets too much: it whites out. Blank. He vaguely recognises his own voice, babbling the filthiest words into the ear of the pretty, dark-haired boy sagging against him. 

He uncurls his toes from inside his boots.

Cum is drying, tacky and unpleasant between their bodies and ruined uniforms. But Jean is too far gone to particularly care and instead opts to brush his knuckles inquiringly against the underside of Eren’s jaw; his face pressed into Jean’s shirt. He gets a content hum in response and decides that that’s good enough. The best confirmation of yes, that was ok, he’s going to get. 

Jean pulls Eren body closer and presses a kiss to his temple in a way that is distinctly protective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot believe that i just wrote over 1k words of anime characters jacking off like


	3. 3

Outside the wall, the nights are so cold that Jean feels like he is either deep underground or in the sky, somewhere between the stars. Each equally lifeless, otherworldly.  


He’s lying in his sleeping bag, never warm enough, ass hard against the ground. But he’s looking up at the pinprick blackness and his lungs feel like they are expanding to engulf the entire night as he takes a long, calming breath and thinks about not much.  


Exhale. Inhale. Listen to his heartbeat. Watch his breath mist. Fall asleep.  


A few hours later, or maybe a few minutes for all he knows, Jean finds himself blinking back to a bleary consciousness. He jerks as he feels something icy, a bit wet, press into the warm underside of his chin, down to his neck and nestles there.  


What the hell? Jean grumbles something, swears probably, and tries to turn away. But there’s something solid, broad pressing back down against his shoulder and it takes Jean a couple of seconds to realise that it’s a hand and that thing against his neck is Eren’s face, his cold nose.  


Eren says his name, uncertainly, sounding scared and even though Jean’s brain is thick and hot, he feels the metronome of his heart stumble and god, that hurts. With mumbled assent from Jean, Eren clambers his way into the sleeping bag with all the grace of a blind animal.  


Jean’s not nearly prepared for the corpse limbs, heavy and cool. He’s not ready for the weight of another body on his, the way Eren’s hands are clumsy, unsure, damp in the middle and childlike in a way that makes Jean take Eren’s fist in his and kiss scarred knuckles. Eren stiffens, as surprised as Jean is.  


He finds himself unable to not press his middle and index finger to a soft hollow in Eren’s neck. The pulse he feels there thrums, blooms life and warmth through Jean’s fingers.  


Jean hasn’t held another person close like this for his entire life and it’s all a little tug boat in a thrashing storm. He suddenly feels lost in Eren’s skin, the musk behind his ears and has no wish to be found ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they fucked a lot in that sleeping bag


End file.
